


What Might Have Been Lost

by VolxdoSioda



Category: Dishonored (Video Games), GreedFall (Video Game)
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:32:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22080424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VolxdoSioda/pseuds/VolxdoSioda
Summary: De Sardet meets an ancient, unknown God.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 33





	What Might Have Been Lost

There is nothing particularly remarkable about the tiny stone church tucked away between two of Theleme’s less well-tred streets. People walk right on by it as they go about their daily lives, not sparing it or the legate standing before it a glance.

De Sardet gazes at crumbling masonry before him; great white marble busts of beasts unknown stand guard at the wrought iron gate, the lock on which has grown rusted and broken from weather and time. The gate itself is overtaken by a curtain of ivy that spreads from one end to the other, and through the glimpses offered between the ivy, the yard is yellow and heavily infested with weeds. It’s clear this place has not been cared for a very long time.

“Why the neglect?” De Sardet asks, as Petrus comes to stand beside him, hands behind his back, ever-patient. “She made it sound cherished.”

“Cornelia’s perception is not reality, my child. As has been shown by the past.” Petrus gazes at the church sadly. “But to answer your question - once, this was a house of quieter worship. Less to the Enlightened, and more to another. We do not know Their name, but supposed They guarded the fishers, and the poor, and the travelers. We suspect they are from an older time, and meant to act as a kind of touchstone between the Enlightened and other religions. As best we can parse today, this God or Goddess was neutral, and did not bless violence, preferring diplomacy over rash action. Rather like yourself.”

De Sardet’s lips twitch. “Do no harm unto me,” he recites quietly. “And no harm be done unto you.”

“Yes.” Petrus peers up at the sun-damaged clay roof; many tiles are missing. “I suspect this is why Cornelia offered this job to you. Because for all that you are an ally to us, you are not one of our believers, and so will not be so threatened by this minor deity as to destroy was precious little remains of the past. We _do _wish to preserve it’s history, and perhaps learn what it was, and what became of it. If you would allow.”

De Sardet steps forward, lightly pushing against the aged iron with a hand. The lock shudders and gives way, tumbling to the cobblestone below, and the gate swings open silently. The air surrounding the yard is silent, still. As if waiting for De Sardet to make his next move.

“Stay here,” De Sardet tells Petrus, and steps into the yard, grass crunching beneath his feet, and up the first rickety, rotten wooden step. The wood creaks alarmingly beneath his weight, but holds. Then the second, and then the third do the same. Petrus watches De Sardet ascend, and there, the door is unlocked, and he is inside.

Inside, it smells of old books, and salty sea water despite being miles from the ocean. Everything is made of wood, few things from stone. There are bookcases, damp with mould and age, the books on them locked into place by moss and growth. A few speckles of sunlight come in from the broke roof, and it is by these that De Sardet navigates, delicately moving about the room, considering what he is seeing, but touching nothing.

And then he finds the back room, locked with a lock that his pickpocket’s set quickly opens, and it reveals to him an alter.

Draped in cloth of rich, dark purples, and void-like, swooping blacks, lit only by the faintest touch of candlelight, the alter is made of bone and wood, and beckons with an unmistakable taste of _magic. _And yet it is more than that - it is the space between one blink and the next, the space between life and death, the pause when Death considers what is before it, before sweeping away. It is the tide rushing to greet the bows of the ships as they launch, the croon of distant whalesong, and beneath it all, a sense of _intrigue. _Of ancient, weightless patience. Beckoning.

Carefully, with slow reverence, De Sardet kneels in the circle before the alter. A God unknown is still worthy of being greeted. The alter is freshly-made, and there sit to the side a host of what are likely offerings - massive circles of bone, carved with peculiar sigils. They taste of magic to De Sardet’s senses, and so he does not touch them. Instead, he takes off his hat, and bows himself forward at the waist, as he would if greeting a King, or Emperor.

He does not pray, exactly. He does not ask for anything. What he does is sit, and _listen, _and feel, and sense, and see in a way most men and women of the Congregation cannot, and do not. He breathes in air that smells of the sea, and thinks of Vasco back in New Serene, likely curled up with a book, or perhaps down at the port with his brothers and sisters, laughing and ensuring the ships are all safe for when the newest captains make their first voyage out.

Between one instant and the next, De Sardet is not alone.

_ **My, my, my. How very curious. It isn’t often I receive guests, let alone ones so well-mannered. ** _

De Sardet does not open his eyes. He does not react. He continues to think of the water, of Vasco, and lets the magic, unfamiliar, run over him like water over a stone.

There are eyes on him. Fathomless, empty. Whalesong, close by. A distant croon, a greeting from the void to the calf. Cold hands hover around him, but do not touch.

_**I see, **_the God says, and smiles with his eyes. _**How very interesting. De Sardet, you call yourself? Be welcomed then, De Sardet. I am the Outsider. **_

And then his eyes are open, and he is floating in a great, windy space of nothingness, of empty space, a sea untouched by any save those the Outsider deems worthy.

He knows this. He knows this as well as he knows his own name, and he knows here in this space, he will not be harmed. It is only a blink in time, a blip that will seem a second to Petrus. But De Sardet will remember it as far longer. His mind is open, wide - there is no hiding from this God. He can see and is seen in turn, and it feels as invasive as a knife to the spine.

The man sitting before him is tall, with brown hair and black, unending eyes. Dressed in a brown jacket, black pants, and black boots, De Sardet would almost mistake him for a dock worker. But there is nothing mortal about him, nothing simple about the leviathan before him.

_**Time has changed the walls, but not what lurks inside, **_the Outsider says, and drifts to sit astride what looks like a massive cut of glass. _**They do not remember my name, but those who are meant to be here will find their way here regardless. Tell me De Sardet, what drives you? What do you seek within my bones?**_

“It isn’t metaphorical, is it?”

_**Perhaps. If I carved your name on my bones, would it be metaphorical then? **_The Outsider tilts his head. _**Those who bear my mark bear my Name - the sigil upon the whalebones. If they interest me enough, I offer them power for the price of **_**remaining **_**interesting. **_A breath; the Outsider is closer now, and one hand is pressed against the spot above his heart. _**Does your Constantin knows what you hold here? What you think of him, how you **_**wonder **_**about him? About yourself?**_

De Sardet does not flinch. The cold sinks through his skin, into the very fabric of him, threatens to rip him apart like the ocean itself. It does not, because the Outsider is waiting for his answer. “He knows me as I know him.”

_ **His lucky star. Burning, searing the world even as you burn yourself out in the space of a breath. You are dead dust, De Sardet, and your after-image is all he sees. And yet, with your after-image, you hold the attention of empires. ** _

He sees, for a fraction of a second, from a third person persective as he greets the governors of Hikmet and Theleme. The moment they saw the way he stood, the way he spoke, when their soft pleas garnered a cursory attention but little more, when he gave them aid without being asked and yet refused to let them break the natives and their secrets wide to their greedy hunger.

_ **You rule them in the way that only stars can. And like a star, you are fleeting. But such a mark you leave. From earth and water you came, but to the sky you return. I wonder - when the dust finally settles, where ** _ **will ** _ **you land?** _

De Sardet gasps, head thrown back, as the cold _tightens _abruptly, and he can taste seawater on his tongue, hear the call of the whales so much closer, and the cold presses in, in, in, _in—_

He is invaded. Against the great leviathan, there is no room for him to squirm, for him to run or hide, or even truly to fight. All he can do is stand his ground as the Outsider takes, and examines the contents of him like a child would a particularly colorful toy.

And then abruptly, it is over. And on his right hand, on the back of his hand, there is a mark. A sigil, matching the ones on the bones he saw before.

“What— I don’t understand.” He coughs, tries to catch breath he doesn’t need, in lungs that feel laden with water. Like he’s still drowning.

The Outsider tilts his head. _**Before you, there came a man of similar design. Corvo Attano, he was called. The Royal Protector to a Queen long dead, who helped raised a Princess, who eventually became a Queen. Twice in his life he drew my interest. Twice in his life he had a chance at revenge, at brutality, and he did not take it. You stand on those same crossroads as long ago, and I am interested to see if you will be the first in this new world to step up to the shadow of your predecessor. That is all.**_

“A whim.”

_ **Yes, and no. I want to see if Constantin d’Orsay’s lucky star is truly so lucky - or if you aren’t just another ghost in the sky with nothing of substance to offer. Let’s see how you fall, shall we?** _

A breath; De Sardet’s eyes open again, and he’s back, alone, in the alter room. On the back of his right hand sits a glowing, pulsing rune, matching perfectly the hissing, thumping heartbeat coming from the carved whalebones sitting nearby. He gets to his feet, and sways, as his balance seems to abandon him. Reaching a hand out to the bones, there’s a jolt of that burning, invasive cold that seems to sink into the very essence of him as he touches the bones. Each vanish beneath his hand, and he get the impression that he’s just earned something. Not a boon, nor a favor, but something _useful _all the same.

He leaves the church the way he came, staggering down the steps like a drunk. Petrus is waiting where he left him, but is frowning, concern lining his face as he watches De Sardet return.

“My child, you’re shaking. Are you alright? What did you see?”

It takes him two tries to wrap his mouth around the words, and even then, it feels as if his tongue has gone numb. “Outsider. His name is the Outsider. He’s—” He considers saying _merciful, _but knows it to be wrong. He looked upon the Void, and felt its essence. “The closest thing he might be is a Trickster of some kind. But he is neutral. Nothing more than a watcher, basically.” His hand throbs suddenly, and De Sardet winces, eyes screwing shut.

A sharp breath. “De Sardet—”

He opens his eyes to a world gone yellow and black. He can see people - through the buildings, in the buildings around him, he can see rats and mice, he can see cats and dogs. He can see _everything. _

He blinks again, and the image vanishes. Petrus is watching him carefully now.

“He has blessed you,” he says solemnly, after a long silence. “You have drawn His attention. Did He speak to you?”

De Sardet barks a laugh, uncomfortable. “He reminded me that I am a lucky star, and all stars are dead things, in the end.”

Petrus’ expression turns grim. “A threat?”

“A reminder. I am not to get cocky.” He straightens himself. “We should return home. You can tell the Mother Cardinal about this, if it suits you. And tell her—” He thinks, mind turning, knowing she will never allow another pantheon to set up shop here. But he also knows the Outsider doesn’t have a single wall that will stop him, one way or another. “Tell her the Outsider goes where he pleases, and will not be denied. Tell me, does Theleme have a book of history?”

“It does. Why?”

“He gave me a name. I wish to pursue it. See how far back it dates.”

“You can do that while I speak to her about this… development. Walk closely to me, my child. I fear your balance at the moment is not suited well enough for these roads.”

De Sardet leans on Petrus as they walk back the way they came. Behind them, the gates silently close themselves, as if pushed by a phantom wind. Around them, the people continue to walk on, never once taking notice of the broken down little church sitting between two buildings.


End file.
